


if you ever wanna be in love

by astratic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Asexuality, Autistic Character, Breakups, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Depression, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Member Death, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, Other, Pre-Canon, Time Skips, Vignette, also i clicked other because jon is nonbinary, discussion of sex, disordered eating mention, i dont actually reference it in this one but know that he is, mostly - Freeform, slight body horror, the admiral's origin story, this is kind of a collection of snapshots of moments in their relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 09:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20240767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astratic/pseuds/astratic
Summary: Jon closes his eyes. The two of them sit like that for several minutes. Georgie is right—the silence is as comfortable as it always is. The context of adate, he muses, only serves as an invitation to act on those inclinations he would otherwise dismiss as ridiculous or embarrassing. Like…He inches carefully closer to her, crossing the precious inches of cushion separating them until their legs are just barely touching, their twined hands resting on Jon’s knee.Jon risks a glance at her. She’s peeking back at him, a grin on her lips.





	if you ever wanna be in love

**Author's Note:**

> you know when you're mentally ill and you meet someone who's also mentally ill but your mutual brain problems just vibe together perfectly? that's jon and georgie. and then.... they don't anymore. can they figure it out? i sure hope so.

I.

Georgie takes the pins out of her hair, carefully leaving the braids in place. Jon watches as she fights gently with one that’s become tangled in the coils of her loose ends, and it strikes him that this feels terribly intimate—so much so that he looks away, flushing, staring intently at the floor.

“Everything alright?” there’s a smile in her voice—she knows he’s nervous. No use hiding it.

“Yeah—I’ve just never, uh, done this before? I mean—I had a lovely time! I’m just…not sure what to do now.”

Georgie studies one of her hair pins, “Sorry—I wouldn’t normally do this until you’d left, but these were getting uncomfortable—they always make knots in my hair.”

“Oh! That’s alright. It’s—it’s your home after all, heh.”

_Normally_, he thinks. Georgie knows what to do on dates _normally_.

“You can take your jacket off,” she says, settling a careful distance away on the couch, “If you want to. I won’t bite any more than usual.”

Jon tugs at the lapel of his blazer but doesn’t make any motion to remove it.

Georgie sighs and settles deeper into the cushions, gazing up at the ceiling.

“It’s the same as it’s always been, Jon,” she says gently, extending her hand, “It’s just me. Don’t worry, okay?”

Jon takes her offered hand, hoping she won’t mind how sweaty his is.

“I know,” he says, “It just feels…different.”

“In a bad way?”

“No. I just worry that there are—expectations.”

Georgie laughs at this, a low, musical snicker that has never made Jon’s heart skip quite like it does now.

“No expectations,” she says, “Just you and me.”

Jon closes his eyes. The two of them sit like that for several minutes. Georgie is right—the silence is as comfortable as it always is. The context of a _date_, he muses, only serves as an invitation to act on those inclinations he would otherwise dismiss as ridiculous or embarrassing. Like…

He inches carefully closer to her, crossing the precious inches of cushion separating them until their legs are just barely touching, their twined hands resting on Jon’s knee.

Jon risks a glance at her. She’s peeking back at him, a grin on her lips. Jon laughs nervously.

They both look away quickly—Jon out of anxiety, and Georgie because she’s being careful. She squeezes his hand lightly.

“I’ve just never thought about it before? Dating? I’m not—er, I don’t want you to think I _don’t_ want to, it’s just that I don’t…generally do things without thinking about them a good deal first.”

“I had gotten that impression.”

He laughs again, easier.

“I think I may have given you the wrong idea,” she says, “I don’t—heh—I don’t know what I’m doing either! I have been on a few dates, but no good ones. Well, they were fine—but I wasn’t serious about it. It’s—you know how teenagers are.”

“I don’t,” Jon intones gravely.

Georgie erupts into giggles, and Jon presses his lips together to hide a grin she won’t see anyway, still staring intently at the ceiling as she is.

“Well, anyway, I don’t think there are any rules to follow. At least, I haven’t made up any to hold you to.”

“Okay.”

Jon fiddles absentmindedly with her fingers, rubbing at the glassy surface of her manicure.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Georgie asks.

“Er…maybe in a little while, if that’s okay?”

“Of course.”

Georgie lets her head fall onto his shoulder, noting as he goes entirely still.

“Is this okay?”

Jon exhales, going back to playing with her fingers, “Yeah. It’s good.”

Silence.

“I had a nice time tonight. I don’t want you to think that I didn’t.”

“I’m…glad. I didn’t think you didn’t, but now you’re making me doubt, ha.”

Jon shrugs, “Oh, uh, you’re just being so, er…? You keep not looking at me. You…can. If you want.”

She does. Jon holds her gaze for only a moment before his eyes drop to study her lipstick, partially rubbed off at the center from dinner. Jon thinks to himself that it looks quite pretty this way—in an odd gradient—even if it’s not intentional.

Georgie’s mouth quirks up at the side, “Sorry. I’m just trying not to pressure you, I guess. Into eye contact—I suppose you were right: it does sort of feel like there’s expectations. From somewhere—even if not from either of us.”

“Are you nervous?”

She laughs, “No. But maybe I should be. I definitely don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay. Just as long as we’re on the same page, I feel better.”

“Good. Maybe we should have talked more beforehand—about expectations, I mean. I—this is nice,” she squeezes his hand.

Jon blushes, “Y—I, uh, yes. It is, isn’t it.”

“Are you—”

“Can I kiss you?” Jon blurts suddenly, too loudly, cutting her off.

Georgie pauses, smiles gently, “Do you want to? No expectations.”

His blush deepens, creeping up from the collar of his shirt and across his face, “I—I do. Very much. Is that okay? Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

Jon looks away, down at the floor.

A moment passes. Then two.

“Jon?”

Georgie reaches out to touch his jaw. Her fingers are gentle, guiding his face up as she leans forward ever so slowly.

Jon stares at her lips, full and half painted as they are, and takes a deep breath.

He closes the gap too quickly and at the wrong angle, bumping their heads together. It’s not hard enough to be particularly painful, but it does shock them both into jumping apart and staring at each other for a half second before Georgie breaks into convulsions of laughter and Jon buries his face in his hands.

“It’s—ha—it’s alright, Jon—“ she gasps between giggles, “You—heehee—you have to—HA—approach a little slower next time.” Tears are streaming down her face now, and she grabs a tissue from the table to dab at her now ruined mascara.

“Oh my god,” Jon groans into his hands.

Georgie has nearly composed herself by the time he can bring himself to peek at her. She still looks utterly lovely, he thinks, with her badly smudged makeup and barely contained hysterics. She glances at him and dissolves into giggles again. As much as Jon wants to be upset, he finds he doesn’t have it in him, and breaks into a sheepish grin of his own.

“I’ve never…kissed anyone before. Give me a break.”

“Of course,” Georgie says through her tears, “Break both our noses.”

This quip inspires another solid minute of laughing at her own joke, and Jon can’t help but feel terribly fond as he watches Georgie struggle to grasp her composure as if it’s a wet bar of soap in the bath.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, attaining some measure of calm, “Do you want to try again?”

Jon feels his face get hot once more, “Maybe, uh…maybe later. Did you want to watch a movie?”

They watch some low-budget thriller that ends up disappointing them both—the acting and effects are bad, but not even in a way that’s worth making fun of. Georgie takes Jon’s hand once more about ten minutes in, though, and that gets his heart racing even if the on screen axe murder doesn’t.

\---

II.

Jon climbs in bed and lays a hand gingerly on Georgie's back, letting it rest there for a few moments before moving it in slow, methodical circles against the soft cotton of her shirt. He can feel the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, though she does not otherwise budge.

"Have you eaten anything?"

She shrugs, the barest of movements that Jon would not have noticed had he not felt it.

Jon leans in to press a kiss to the nape of Georgie's neck. She reaches over her shoulder to thread her fingers in his hair.

"What would you like? I'll make dinner."

"I'm not hungry," she says, muffled.

"Georgie."

She turns to look at him. What remains of her makeup is smudged around her eyes, giving her a bruised look.

Jon settles into the pillow beside her, their noses nearly touching. The arm draped across her back tightens about her waist.

"Did something happen?" He says.

"No."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talking doesn't help, Jon."

She closes her eyes. Jon studies her—the smudged makeup and her slack expression coupled with her ashen tone in the low light reminds him upsettingly of a corpse. So much so that Jon is startled when her mouth moves:

"What are you thinking about?"

_That you look rather dead,_ is probably not an advisable thing to say to one's girlfriend, Jon thinks.

Instead, he says, "I want to help."

"You always say that, and it's lovely, but this just happens sometimes—chronic depression…it's like that. Sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

Georgie cracks one eye and looks at him, "I know it makes you anxious. I'm trying."

Jon shrugs, "Instead of apologizing, you could eat something?"

She squeezes her eyes shut again. "Jon."

"Georgie. At least let me make you some tea?"

This she ignores in favor of looking very dead again, and Jon finds himself watching for the tiny movement of her shoulders that tells him she's breathing.

It has never been in Jon's nature to take care of people—he feels clumsy at it, like trying to speak a language he doesn't even know the alphabet for. It's not like he'd ever had much example—for all that his grandmother cared for him perfectly adequately growing up, Jon had never gotten the sense that she was a _caretaker_ at heart.

He feels much the same way—as much as he adores Georgie, nothing about doting on her comes easily to him, and much of the time, this is fine. Georgie is an independent soul—as friendly and understanding as she is capable and self-assured. She knows that organizing the bookshelf or trying a new restaurant or proofreading a script is just as much an expression of affection from Jon as a hug or a kiss is traditionally, and it works out well.

She has these spells, though, where she gets so sick and exhausted and _empty_, and as much as she insists it's fine (and it always has been—back to herself after a few weeks), Jon drives himself up the wall every time trying to find things he can do for her. He can't shake the feeling that if this was more natural for him—if he knew what to do instead of just guessing—he could make it better.

Georgie opens her eyes.

“I can handle it on my own.”

“I don’t want you to have to.”

She turns away, putting her back to him.

“I guess it’s just—you said you didn’t have anyone? When you took a year off school for your…illness. You said no one had time for you, and that’s why you don’t, er, have any friends? And I—I’ve always felt the same way, I suppose. No one wants to put up with me? The weird, autistic nerd: I do notice how people react to me. I’m not obviously autistic enough that it’s cute or endearing or whatever other condescending way people think of it—just enough that I’m off-putting and hard to get along with,” he laughs self-consciously, “Except you. You never act bothered by any of it. I just want to return the favor.”

Georgie is silent for a long time, and then a wet sniff and shudder of her shoulders makes Jon’s heart skip a beat. “Georgie?”

“I’m fine,” she says, voice thick with tears.

Jon puts an arm around her once more, pressing his forehead into her shoulder.

“Eggs and toast,” she whispers, "please."

\---

III.

The auditorium is dark.

There's something about the stillness Jon has always found compelling—maybe it's just that he hates crowds and noise, and theatre is many times more enjoyable in the absence of both—but there's something else, he thinks. There's something about being a lone observer in this, a hall of watching, that is simply exhilarating.

Two actors trade lines on stage under close tutelage of the director—she likes to do things this way, early in a production: honing in on one dynamic at a time before bringing the entire cast together in a discordant collection of moving parts that have yet to sync and will take weeks to do so, at a point in the production when cohesive rehearsals are tantamount.

There are distinct disadvantages to this approach, but it does mean Jon gets a lot of time to himself during early rehearsals, so he can't complain about that particularly.

"Has the lead finally learned his lines?" Says a voice behind him suddenly, making him jump.

Jon whirls around in his seat to see Georgie, grinning, resting her chin on the back of the seat.

"Jesus Christ," he spits in a fierce whisper, "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Sorry," she says, though she doesn't look sorry in the least, "My meeting ended early. Thought I'd see what you were up to."

"Same thing as always," he grumbles, throwing one leg over the armrest and sitting sideways in the uncomfortable auditorium seat, "Theatre is meant to move as a well-oiled machine. Each part slots into the next with a precision gained from care in the crafting—crafting done harmoniously." He waves toward the stage, the pair of actors trading lines rapid-fire, "This is not harmonious. It's fine work for these two, sure, until the cast comes together in a cacophony of dissonant tone that will never quite moderate itself into the kind of nuanced cohesion the work demands."

Georgie snorts.

"What?"

"You're cute when you bitch about art."

Jon laughs just a little too loudly, prompting a pause and pointed stares from the stage as he tries to hide himself in his notebook.

"I'm a bad influence," says Georgie conspiratorially.

Jon snickers, minding his volume, “You really shouldn’t be in here during rehearsal in the first place.”

“What time are you finished?” Georgie checks her watch, “Half six? About half an hour left, then.”

She leans forward and kisses his cheek, “I’ll amuse myself in the library for a while. Don’t forget you promised me dinner.”

“The new Thai place down the road—couldn’t forget if I wanted to.”

“Thai food is great! You’ll love it.”

Jon grimaces, “It’s not that I doubt the culinary prowess of Thailand—it’s just, personally? I never love unfamiliar food. I do it for you.”

She kisses him again, this time the barest peck on the lips, “I appreciate it. I’ll get out of your hair.”

\---

Georgie is kissing him hard, with that urgency Jon has come to recognize even though he doesn't totally understand.

She says into his mouth, "Do you want to...?" Her hand starts to creep under the hem of his shirt and he finds himself seizing it by way of answer, pulling away from the kiss and clutching her hand between his.

"Jon?" She looks lovely—hair all mussed and panting lightly, "Is something wrong?"

"I, uh—" Jon is sure he had something important to say, but it's fled him, "Um, you look…nice."

He can practically see the question mark forming in Georgie's brain. "Thanks?"

Jon wishes he could kick himself, but it'd be an impressive feat in such a position as he's found himself.

"Are you okay?" The confusion on his girlfriend's face is starting to give way to worry, "This doesn't have to go anywhere if you don't…"

_That's it._

"Actually, I wanted to say—" the words get caught in his throat, and he pauses to consider them. Georgie rearranges herself, settling in for what she can already tell is going to be an involved discussion.

"I don't think I like it," he blurts finally.

"You don't like…what?"

Jon grimaces. "You know." He looks up at the ceiling and tries very hard to ignore the way his pulse is pounding, "Sex? It's just—I don't care for it. It's not you; you're lovely! I'm just—"

He trails off as Georgie pulls his hand to her lips and presses a kiss to his fingers. Jon looks back to her face, but her expression is one he doesn't recognize.

"You should have said something before," her tone is gentle, but there's a tightness to it.

"I'm sorry; I know this is a—a weird time to bring it up—a mood killer, but—"

"That's not what I meant!" Georgie puts a hand on her forehead, pushing back her hair, "Jon, I hate the idea that we were doing that and you didn't really want to. I don't want to do that to you."

"I—" Jon's heart is in his throat, but he'd be hard pressed to say why. He's starting to regret broaching the subject, but not for the reason he'd feared.

"You aren't—you're not upset?"

Georgie snorts, "Well clearly I am a little upset."

"But not about…?"

"That you don't want to have sex? Not really. Look," Georgie sits up straighter, tugs at the hem of her shirt, "I know a lot of people who have a complicated relationship to sex for any number of reasons. I don't necessarily know your reasons—you can talk about them if you want, but it doesn't matter to me inasmuch as I respect it and I am not upset with you."

Jon stares at her for several seconds, until Georgie's brow knits in concern, "Jon?"

He feels a prickling in his eyes and reflexively buries his face in the fabric of his hoodie.

"That's...cool," he says, muffled.

"Jon…"

Jon knows without looking that Georgie wants to reach for him but isn't sure if it's okay—it's a game they play any time he's upset, pretty much—Georgie always wanting to give him as much space as he needs—but right now the tension feels especially palpable. If anything, it makes him want to cry even more.

Instead, he untangles his fingers from the fabric of his shirt and holds his arms open to her. Georgie fills them immediately, crushing him into her embrace and settling against his side as he presses his face into her shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Jon shrugs.

"It's just weird. I know I'm weird, Georgie."

She snorts, "Frankly, I'm weird, too. I think it's why we get on so well."

He leans back to squint at her—he's not wearing his glasses, so this expression is extra believable, "You know what I mean," he mumbles.

"I'm afraid I don't."

Jon scowls, and Georgie smiles at him gently, "I'm not going to condone your self-deprecating nonsense, Jonathan."

His instinct is to get irritated, but instead he sighs, "Okay. Thanks."

Georgie gazes at him for several moments. Then:

"It's not that weird, anyway. I don't feel very strongly about sex as a part of a relationship—it's fun, but it's not essential. I'm sure others feel differently, but that's me."

"Can I kiss you?" Jon blurts.

Georgie actually throws her head back in laughter, clear and bright. "Yes," she says, eyes twinkling, "Of course."

The kiss is careful and pointed—as if asking a question—as many of Jon's kisses are.

When they separate, they keep their foreheads pressed together, as if in mutual contemplation of the wordless inquiry.

In the end, Jon answers it himself, "I didn't say anything before because…well, I thought I just wasn't good at it."

"What?"

Jon leans back and rubs a hand through his hair, "You know…I hadn't, er, done it before, and so I thought maybe it's just always bad at first? And maybe it is, to some extent—but I thought it would get better, and it didn't. Just became something I half-dreaded. It's not especially _unpleasant_, understand! I don't _hate_ it, exactly, but it's not enjoyable."

Georgie's expression is sober again, "I'm glad you told me."

Jon blinks, hard, desperate not to choke up again, "I was scared to. I care for you very much."

Her lip quirks up just barely at the corner, "I care for you, too."

\---

V.

"Jonathan, you're not the most coordinated at the best of times, so forgive me if I'm a little wary of you leading me blindfolded—"

"Alright, alright! You can take it off now—we're here!"

Georgie tugs the scarf off eagerly and looks around—a boring residential street in an unremarkable London suburb.

"Um, Jon?"

He wrings his hands nervously, "Well, I admit it doesn't look like much, but I didn't want to knock on the door with you blindfolded—they'd probably think that was weird. I, uh, I know things have been rough lately? And Jenny from DND mentioned that her sister's cat had a litter of kittens that need homes, so I thought now that we have our own flat—if you want—we could—"

He's cut off by the force of Georgie throwing her arms around him, nearly knocking him sprawling onto the concrete but catching him just before he topples.

Jon laughs as he clings to her shoulders, "I take it that's a yes, then?"

Georgie presses several kisses to his cheek, "Yes! I love you!"

"Y-yes, I—I love you, too."

She kisses him once on the lips before he takes her hand and leads her to one of the buildings lining the street, squinting at the number and then double and triple checking the address scribbled on a note in his pocket before finally, he knocks on the door.

A pleasant looking woman answers almost immediately.

Jon shakes her hand, "Hi! I—I'm Jonathan. We spoke on the phone? A-about the kittens?"

The Woman looks mildly alarmed, “Oh! You’re early—my kids made a bit of a mess of the living room. I was hoping to get it cleaned before you got here,” she glances over her shoulder and then shrugs, “I guess it’s alright. Come in, and excuse the mess. I’m Amanda—nice to meet you.”

The room is not especially messy, by the estimation of two university students who share a flat. There are toys and shoes scattered about, but the overall atmosphere is rather charming.

“Hold on,” says Amanda, “My son likes to keep the cats upstairs.” And she disappears into the stairwell.

Jon and Georgie are left standing awkwardly in the cluttered living room. Georgie reaches over and catches Jon’s little finger with her own, flashing a grin at his questioning glance.

“Now, one of the kittens has been spoken for—my friend’s daughter is away at camp, and I’m keeping him for her parents until she gets back, but any of these are available.”

She comes awkwardly down the stairs holding what appears to be a large laundry basket with a couple furry heads sticking out of the top. Georgie gasps.

Georgie is practically bouncing when she meets Amanda in the middle of the room and settles on the carpet in front of the basket.

She is greeted with a chorus of _mew_s as she offers her hand to the kittens.

“They’re nine weeks and have had their shots and check-ups but no sterilization yet—that’s up to you. I also trim their claws semi-regularly—when I have time.”

Jon spots a child with a head of wild curly hair peeking around the corner. He waves uncertainly, and the head disappears.

“Jonathan, come here,” Georgie commands, gesturing for him to sit beside her. He does, only to have a kitten thrust immediately at him.

There are three of them, all about half the size of a fully-grown cat. One is black, one tabby, and the third a fluffy grey.

Georgie is holding the grey one, one hand around its middle and one supporting its rear. It stares at him with wide green eyes, and he stares back.

Unsure what else to do but encouraged by Georgie’s expectant smile, Jon offers his hand to the kitten, who sniffs it daintily for several seconds before butting its head into his fingers for scritches.

As Jon scratches the kitten behind its big triangular ear, he finds his eyes alarmingly wet, and sniffs loudly.

“Jon?” says Georgie, concerned, “Are you allergic to cats?”

“No,” he squeaks, taking off his glasses to rub a sleeve across his eyes.

“Oh, Jon…”

Georgie puts a hand on his shoulder as Jon fights against tears.

“Mum, why is he crying?” comes the voice of a young child from nearby, and Jon wants to bury himself—he _does_ bury his face in the folds of his sleeve, scrambling to his feet.

“Hush, Michael,” says Jenny’s sister as Jon stumbles down the hall before he realizes he has no idea where he’s going.

“Toilet’s the first door on the right,” she calls helpfully.

Georgie steeples her fingers in the awkward silence that follows.

She pats the grey kitten on the head, curled in her lap, “I like this one.”

-

“Are you okay?”

Georgie is holding the pet carrier at her side. She’d insisted, citing Jon’s bad knee, but he suspected she was afraid he would cry again.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, “I got overwhelmed. Can we drop it?”

“Okay,” she says gently, “But it’s normal to be emotional when you get a pet. It’s a big responsibility. I—it means a lot to me that you take it seriously.”

Jon grunts in wordless admission, but when Georgie glances at him, she thinks he looks just a bit less tense.

When they get home, Georgie immediately lets the kitten out onto the sofa, and he is so taken with sniffing everything that he scarcely spares a glance to Jon and Georgie.

“What should we name him?” says Georgie, watching Jon carefully as he watches the kitten.

“Mmm,” Jon murmurs, “My grandmother had a cat when I was young—I scarcely remember, but his name was Captain. He was old—died when I was about six. I begged her to get another cat, but she never would…he belonged to my grandfather, I think. She doesn’t have much patience for pets.”

“How about…Admiral.”

“What?”

Georgie scoops up the kitten, who _mew_s once in protest before resigning himself to being snuggled, “Let’s give him a promotion. The Admiral,” she brandishes the Admiral in front of Jon, who snorts with laughter.

The Admiral wiggles in Georgie’s grip until she puts him down, and he races off to explore his new home.

Georgie seats herself on the sofa beside Jon, resting her head on his shoulder. She pulls an envelope out of her pocket and hands it to him.

“I know you hate getting gifts,” she says, “But you did get me a surprise cat, so I don’t feel bad for putting you on the spot.”

“Antigone at the National Theatre. Georgie…”

“Happy anniversary,” she says, kissing his cheek.

\---

VI.

"Jon."

"Mm?"

"Are you okay?"

He sighs dramatically, in that way he has that tells her he was itching to talk and waiting for a chance,

"What a question. I suppose so, Georgie. I suppose my grandmother's funeral was uneventful, and the death of my only living relative doesn't much change my situation materially, does it?"

"Jesus, Jon."

He turns to look at her, squinting in the setting sun, "Sorry."

She shakes her head, "No, it's fair I guess. I just—" she puts a hand on his knee, "I want to be here for you, but you're so—"

"Hostile."

"A little. I was going to say, 'hurt.' I don't know the right things to say, Jon."

Jon leans back on the bench, hands folded neatly over the handle of his cane, watching the undertakers in the distance, lowering his grandmother painstakingly into the ground.

"She didn't have any patience for grief. Any question I asked about my father was met with irritation and a curt answer at most. It's just odd—trying to grapple with it when I know she rejected those feelings herself. Come to think of it, though, maybe she just never dealt with it and instead locked it away like the rest of the things my father left with her. My needling questions probably felt to her like a safe feels being cracked."

"Do you feel like that now?"

Jon looks at her sideways, "What is that supposed to mean?"

Georgie shrugs, "You have to admit you're a lot like her—I mean, come on. Watching the two of you have tea was sometimes like…like watching a chess game with one person moving back and forth, playing against themself."

Jon is silent for several seconds—and then _laughs_, the first laugh she's heard in days.

"It did feel like chess sometimes—I knew all her moves and she would still stump me."

Georgie isn't totally sure when the laughter turns to sobs, but it lasts only for a moment—just as she's registering it and reaching for him, he's already composing himself and blowing his nose in a tissue from the little travel pack she'd put in his pocket earlier.

"Jon—"

"I'm fine, Georgie. You know I hate all this—" he waves his hand vaguely in the general vicinity, indicating nothing in particular, "—fuss. It's pointless. Hardly anyone came. Not like old Anna was a very social woman." He sets aside the cane, propping it carefully against the arm rest.

"Quit calling her by her first name. She raised you."

He shrugs very deliberately, taking great care to convey how little it matters to him, "Grandmother was never sentimental about things like that. She wasn't sentimental about anything. Hated it."

Georgie sighs, "Doesn't mean you have to be, Jon."

"Doesn't it?"

Georgie takes his hand where it rests on the bench, squeezing it, but his fingers remain limp in her grasp, so she releases him.

"I never got the impression she wanted to have children in the first place, and she certainly didn't want to raise an orphaned grandchild. It was just—the fifties, and she did what people expected of her and spent the rest of her life regretting it but never saying so. She certainly did a fair job of tolerating me, considering. But I don't think she would have much sympathy for any urge to grieve I might be inclined toward, and so—" he shrugs, "Doesn't it seem disrespectful not to honor her wishes? Follow her example—lock up the safe."

"Jon. That's not how _any_ of this is meant to work."

"Is that so?" He throws up his hands, "How is this _meant_ to work, Georgie, since I'm evidently not meeting your standards?"

"Please don't act like that. All I mean is that grieving is at least as much about you as it is about her—she's dead, Jon. You don't have to pretend you don't care just because you think she'd disapprove."

Jon looks away, arms crossed over his chest. Georgie can't see his face, but she can feel the force of his pout in the air.

There is silence for several seconds before she tries again:

"Jonathan—"

"Please." The word comes as a croak, thick with emotion, and Georgie's heart flutters.

"It's okay," she says softly.

She tugs at his arm, and he relinquishes it, allowing her to slot hers beside, twining her fingers with his, bending down to press a kiss to the back of his hand. She puts her head on his shoulder, and after several moments, he relaxes: leaning into her as well.

\---

VII.

"I just—I keep thinking, this is too much. I can't handle a—this relationship is just too…intense, but I can't deal with—ugh."

“’Too much,’ how?” Georgie touches his shoulder gingerly, and he shrugs off her hand.

“I don’t know! I’m just—I feel stretched to my limits, like there isn’t enough of me for the things I’m trying to do. With working at the Institute, going through Grandmother’s things—”

“I’m here for you, Jon.”

He grimaces, “Don’t you ever feel like—sometimes I think I just want to be alone! You’re lovely, but there’s not _enough_ of me…but I’m scared. I can't lose you, too, Georgie. Not right now.”

Georgie is silent for a long time, staring at him with something like pity.

"You don't have to keep looking at me like that. I get it—I'm a sad sack. Just—forget I said anything, please? I love you," Jon reaches for her hand, and she takes it, folding it tenderly within her own in the way she does when she's about to lay down hard truths and hopes to soften the blow. Jon can feel his heart rate pick up.

"You're telling me that you've thought about breaking up with me, but you can't bring yourself to do it, not because you want to be with me, but because you're afraid to be alone."

"I _do_ want to be with—"

"You don't. It's okay. Don't lie to me, please."

"Georgie."

"Jon."

They have a staring contest of sorts. Jon breaks first, as he always does.

"I think we should break up."

He knows it's coming, but it feels like a kick to the chest, anyway.

"Please, Georgie—"

"Jon. Listen to me. You just said you're miserable and this relationship is 'too much.' What am I supposed to make of that? I'm supposed to just go on here, knowing you hate being with me and you think I'm stifling?"

"Stop putting words in my mouth, for Christ's sake, Georgie! I'm just—I don't know what I want, but it's sure as hell not _this_!"

"Jonathan."

"Don't you 'Jonathan' me! You're just—I can't deal with this right now! You're just throwing me out like so much rubbish because I admitted to having doubts?"

"I am not _throwing you out,_ Jon. You are my _best friend_. And you keep telling me I'm causing you stress—I don't want to be that for you! It's not fair to either of us if you're feeling that way."

"Please."

Georgie pulls him into an embrace, "I love you. You know that. And this isn't working, not anymore."

Jon shoves her away roughly, and Georgie grits her teeth.

"Okay," she says, "that was unnecessary."

Jon opens his mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. Instead, he curls in on himself in furious silence.

Georgie climbs over the crumpled duvet and settles next to him, their knees just a few careful millimeters from touching, and hugs a pillow to her chest.

Silence stretches between them for several excruciating minutes as they each look anywhere but at each other, and then Jon says, "I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted."

"But—?"

"I'm still breaking up with you."

Silence.

"Jon."

"Can we do this tomorrow? Please?"

“What’s going to be different tomorrow? Hm?”

He looks terrified—the most afraid she has ever seen him, and Georgie has talked him through many panic attacks. She reaches for him on instinct, but he cringes away from her hand, so it drops.

“I know you’re in a hard place,” Georgie says, “Things have been constantly strained between us lately. And I didn’t want to—but, you’re right. Jon. Please, say something.”

He doesn’t.

Georgie sighs.

“I’m still here for you. You’re still my best friend.”

There is silence for a long time, and then Jon says something unintelligible, only barely a sound.

“What?”

“I said, ‘Fuck you!’” He comes to life all at once, making complex, agitated hand motions as he speaks, “That’s such a—a cop-out! You’re gonna just break up with me and then act like nothing happened—like we’re going to just keep living together and it _won’t be weird_ somehow because you’re just so—you’re so _mature_ and you’ve got everything figured out, right? Well, I don’t have everything figured out.”

“I don’t have everything figured out, Jon.”

“Oh, yes, but you sure do spend plenty of time telling me what I’m doing wrong and how I should feel. Sorry—I can’t _be_ diplomatic about this I suppose…when it feels like all I have left in me is anger and hurt. You can take what I’ve got or leave it.”

“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t stay in a relationship.”

Jon presses his lips together in a thin line, “Fine.”

He gets up then, digging a bag out of the closet and shoving some of his things into it, seemingly at random.

“Jon. What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night. Don’t _leave_—where will you go?”

“Don’t know—I’ll get a hotel room. Don’t worry about it.”

Georgie catches his arm as he passes, and he snatches it away.

“_Don’t_ touch me,” he snaps.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “Please, listen to me? I’ll sleep on the couch tonight; you can have as much space as you need. Just don’t go storming off into the night, okay? Please.”

Something in him deflates, and he sits down abruptly on the bed, dropping the bag at his feet. His hands move rhythmically, in a probably-unconscious attempt to calm himself.

The two of them sit in silence for a moment, and then Georgie sighs, “I’ll—I’m going to go. I’ll be in the other room if you need me, but I’ll leave you alone otherwise,” she pauses at the door, looking back at him. He stares blankly at the floor, his only motion the constant movement of his hands.

“Goodnight, Jon.”

\---

VIII.

“H—um, hey, Georgie? This is Georgie, right? Y—”

“Wait, wait—_Jon_? Jonathan Sims?”

“Yes?”

“Hah—you don’t sound sure.”

“Well, then, _yes_, I’m Jon. Hello, Georgie.”

“Mmm. It’s been, what, five years? Did you not delete my number all that time?”

“Er—I did delete it from my phone—but I, uh, wrote it down? In case I…needed it. One day. Like now. Glad you didn’t change it.”

“Pfft—HA! That’s classic. So I take it there’s a reason you’re calling me up out of nowhere, then? Don’t just want to catch up?”

“Oh! Yes, hm. I _would_ very much like to catch up, but, er, I also need a place to stay? I, uh, lost my job? And I was wondering if I could…_crash_ on your couch, as—heh—as the kids say.”

Georgie laughs long and hard at this before answering: “Yeah, of course. For you, always.”

\---

Jon is sleeping when Georgie opens the door. She shuts it carefully, so as not to wake him. The Admiral is curled on his chest, cradled in the crook of his elbow, and she smiles.

Georgie sits down in the armchair beside the sofa and rests her chin in her hands, watching.

It's been two days since Jon showed up on her doorstep again after disappearing, covered in wounds he refuses to talk about. It's upsetting, but it's clear he needs her now more than ever, even if he hates admitting it.

He always was like that. You had to twist his arm to get him to talk about anything he was feeling—it was a contributing factor to their breakup, in fact. It wasn't that Jon was out of touch with his emotions—no, he was deeply, profoundly emotional—he just got too in his head about it, getting so tied up in his own anxieties and preoccupations that he couldn't begin to consider her point of view. It was maddening to watch and impossible to live with. Yet, here they are.

Georgie is well aware that something dangerous is going on in his life—she's not stupid, of course. The weight of responsibility is clear in the set of his shoulders and the pronounced peppering of grey through his dark hair. He always was a little bit like that, though; even when she knew him before, Jon always acted like some grave task had just been handed down to him, and anyone who got in his way was impeding some proceedings of world-altering importance. Of course, in those days it had been things like finding the correct print of a certain fabric to match a period setting, or writing a scathing blog post about the latest classic film he'd watched in his cinema class. Now, somehow, Georgie senses it isn't like that anymore. Jon still moves with the same focused urgency, but she fears whatever work it is he's doing these days, it actually may be that important.

His brow is furrowed even in sleep, and he's frowning. His eyes twitch rapidly beneath his eyelids as if searching for something, and Georgie wonders what it is.

He’d called out of nowhere that day, months ago, after years of silence, and yet it hadn't really surprised her. Somehow it felt right that Jon would come crashing back into her life like that—dragging a hastily packed duffel bag and offering no more explanation than that he'd lost his job.

It was a little ridiculous of her, letting him sleep on her couch with no more explanation than all that, but, well, Georgie has long considered herself to be a bit ridiculous—taken pride in it, even—and Jon himself certainly is. It was what drew them together in the first place: the two developing little rituals between them that helped the world make a bit more sense to their own backwards brains. Maybe this is one of those, Georgie thinks. It's clear Jon needs some sense in his life.

As tight lipped as he is, she's heard the way his voice warps when he reads those statements of his—like he's not himself for a bit, taken over by the essence of the story in a way that goes beyond Jon's theatrical tendencies—and the Jon she knows comes back only at the end, slightly changed each time. Georgie has been pinned under his pointed stare, feeling as if he's seeing every secret she's never told him, somehow, when he's only asking about her day. It's unsettling, but she doesn't care so much about that. Jon has always been odd. What bothers her is that she knows it's connected to whatever caused those scars he's covered in, and he's just come back with yet more cuts and bruises and with his hand wrapped entirely in gauze.

_He must think I'm stupid_, says the bitter voice in her head. Or maybe it's just that Jon is stupid. Either way, it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. He's always had trouble relying on anyone, and it's clear that, at least, hasn't changed.

So maybe it is foolish to keep him in her flat like this, with police asking after him and his own panicked glances at the door every time there's a sound outside, but Jon has been alone for a long time. Georgie wasn’t there for him after his grandmother died, not the way he needed, and she’s always wished for a way to make it up to him—and, well. Here’s the perfect opportunity, she thinks.

The Admiral wakes then, stretching and digging his claws into Jon's chest, and Jon comes to with a start, chasing the cat away in his half-asleep delirium. The Admiral hops in Georgie's lap and mews pitifully.

Jon's gaze fixes on her, "Georgie, hi. Wha—what are you doing?"

She snorts, scratching the Admiral behind the ear, "Watching you sleep. So peaceful."

\---

X.

It's odd, the way emotions interplay with one another.

If fear can be called an emotion—sometimes Georgie thinks it's more like a state of being.

It mixes with emotions, though: sharpening and dulling them with context. Fear transforms grief into a symphony of hurting, for example, but you'd never notice it was such a big component unless it was gone.

Georgie touches the back of Jon's hand. It's too cold—the deep chill of a corpse, almost—and she thinks that she's missing something, probably.

Something is lacking in this feeling, the feeling of losing her best friend all over again to god-knows-what, the feeling of looking at his gaunt face and seeing the residual staining of livor mortis on his limbs—from before they restarted his heart. The feeling of being told he probably won't wake up—and wondering if maybe that would be better.

Georgie knows what a corpse looks like. She doesn't know why Jon is alive—if he can truly be called that. She is sad—she's confused, tense, bereaved—she is not afraid.

It's a vital ingredient in the cocktail of misery she should be feeling, and it's missing. It is, perhaps, the first time she's ever truly regretted the loss.

"I know you can't hear me, but you're an idiot. Just thought I'd…put that out there."

He doesn't answer.

"It's pretty macabre—all this. Apparently, your…_boss_ intervened when you were on your way to the morgue. They had already—" her voice catches, and Georgie swallows, "They had already told me you were dead. I mean—you'd been dead for _hours_, and you—"

She looks up at the ceiling.

"I told you so many times, and you misunderstood me until the very end. You might as well be doing it on purpose, but I know you aren't."

Georgie tugs on a coil of her hair, stretching and releasing it absently, "I'd almost prefer if you were. Doing it on purpose, I mean—it'd be easier to be angry with you that way. Stop feeling…like this.

"Like I've tried to hold onto you over and over, because I—" she's not sure why she stops herself, with only a corpse as her audience. She sighs, "I care about you, Jon. And you hate yourself so much you can't believe it, and so you drive yourself further and further away. You've always been like this, even before the monster stuff.

"You know, I don't honestly care that much about it? I keep thinking, maybe I _should_ because all this is so dangerous, and you're dangerous—but all I want is for you to…to be a little self aware about it? You keep pushing the limits even as you agonize over it because you never know when to stop. You _never_ know when to _stop._

"And part of me…loves that about you. I should have—should have let you move out weeks ago, let you make your own decisions because you're not my responsibility. But, I—that drive you have: the overwhelming need to _know_ and to go deeper—well. I've always found it terribly endearing. And I can't escape that even as I watch you destroy yourself with it. So…sorry, I guess. Maybe if I could be afraid I'd—I wouldn't find it so...compelling.

"For all the times I told you to stop—I knew…I _knew_ you wouldn't. And you—you saved the world! I think. So maybe I shouldn't feel so…defeated. But I know—I know you should have died. I know you aren't quite there—I can feel it. Which is—that's not something I've ever been able to admit to myself: that I have a sense for these things. But, well. I guess we're all about admitting we're monsters these days, huh?

"I'm being melodramatic, sorry. You're still in my dreams, of course, but I didn't have to see you to know—you're teetering just on the edge of something, and I don't know if you can come back from it? I miss you terribly, but...maybe best to quit while you're ahead, yeah?"

She rubs a hand over her face, "I should go, I think—I'll be back, not that I think you can hear me. Hang—hang on to yourself, Jon. Hah...sweet dreams."

\---

**Author's Note:**

> my submission to rqbb is a little late because of health stuff, but i'm here!!!
> 
> the wonderful [bosetsu](https://bosetsu.tumblr.com) made TWO illustrations for this that can be found [here](https://bosetsu.tumblr.com/post/187009222548/we-are-a-bit-late-to-the-deadline-but-here-goes)... they're gorgeous
> 
> i do intend to add an epilogue to this, but i wanted to go ahead and post the main part as is... here is my jongeorgie manifesto


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